"Can't tell yet. We need to get in there."
We worked fast, cutting through the buckled door frame while I squeezed halfway into the wreckage. The smell was even more pungent.
"Can you hear me? My name's Matthew. We're going to get you out."
No response. I angled my flashlight to get a better look—male, mid-thirties maybe. Dark hair matted with blood, but even unconscious, there was something about his face. Sharp cheekbones. Mouth that looked like it didn't smile often but would be worth the wait when it did.
Focus, McCabe.
Breathing shallow, rapid. Classic shock. I ran my hands along his torso, checking for obvious trauma.
That's when I felt it.
The wound near his ribs was wrong, too clean and precise. It wasn't a jagged tear or the broad impact bruising I'd expect from a crash. I moved my light closer, pushing aside the torn fabric of his shirt.
Bullet hole.
Small caliber, close range. The entry wound was neat, surrounded by powder burns that had singed the fabric. The blood was fresh but not arterial—he'd been lucky. The bullet missed anything immediately fatal.
Someone had shot the man before his SUV ended up crushed under a delivery truck.
The pieces didn't fit. Gunshot victims didn't just turn up in random traffic accidents. Not in Seattle on a Tuesday night on I-5.
Rodriguez called to me. "What've we got?"
"GSW to the torso, need a backboard and C-spine immobilization."
I continued my assessment while the firefighters worked to widen the opening.
The man's airway was clear. His pulse was weak but present. No apparent spinal injury, but with the roof compression, I couldn't be sure. The bullet lodged somewhere near his ribcage—close enough to vital organs to be dangerous if we moved his body wrong.
I stared at the lean, angular face momentarily. In his left hand, clutched against his chest, was a folded photograph. Blood soaked the paper, but he held it like it was the only thing keeping him anchored to the world. I carefully pried it from his fingers and slipped it into my pocket. Whatever it was mattered to him and shouldn't be lost in the rescue efforts.
"Almost got you." I rechecked his pulse. "Hang in there."
Kayla joined me, and his eyelids fluttered as we maneuvered the backboard into position. Dark, brown eyes opened wide, looking right at me. His lips moved as he tried to speak, but no sound escaped.
Then, his eyes closed, and he was gone again.
"Let's move," I told Rodriguez. "This one's critical."
As we extracted him from the wreckage and loaded him onto our gurney, an icy sensation spread through my veins. For some reason, I knew this wasn't just another call. It wasn't random. As I stared at his pale face in the strobing emergency lights, I knew it was only the beginning… of something.
The ambulance became our world, leaving the rest of the accident scene behind. Kayla drove with controlled urgency, taking corners just shy of what the gurney restraints could handle. The radio chattered constantly: other units clearing the scene, traffic control, and hospital notification.
I kept my hands busy with standard protocol—monitoring vitals, adjusting the IV drip, and checking the oxygen saturation. It was routine enough that my eyes had time to wander to details unrelated to medical assessment.
Fingernails bitten to the quick. Raw. Worried down to nothing. The kind of damage that came from having too much time to think and nowhere safe to do it.
A thin scar ran along his left temple, old enough to be silver-white but deep enough to suggest severe trauma. On his right wrist, just below where I'd placed the IV, I spotted a circular burn mark the size of a cigarette.
I pulled out the blood-soaked photograph and placed it on the edge of the equipment tray. Through the red stains, I saw two figures in what looked like a desert landscape. The image was too damaged to see clearly.
In the bottom right corner, a faint shadow stretched across the sand, like someone just out of frame, watching.
"How's he looking?" Kayla called from the driver's seat.
"Vitals are stabilizing. Pulse is stronger." I adjusted the oxygen mask over his face, noting how the plastic fogged with each shallow breath. "ETA to Harborview?"
